Brother Jesse's Lamentations

[clarencebunsen]

I failed to look up DSM 293.81 during any earlier go around. What is his general medical condition?

How could you give a KISS photo and not a song? (Probably some objection based on lack of musical quality and taste.)

[dave]

Oct 15, 2012 22:30:07 GMT -5 clarencebunsen said:

I failed to look up DSM 293.81 during any earlier go around. What is his general medical condition?

How could you give a KISS photo and not a song? (Probably some objection based on lack of musical quality and taste.)

Only high blood pressure, that we know of. But the doctor thinks he may have a tiny brain tumor the radiologists are still arguing about.

Thanks for the KISS music. It was getting late and I ran out of energy.

Here's another, one of my favorites from KISS. Actually they look kinda tired in this video. I mean, for crazy people. Maybe it's the venue, under the Brooklyn Bridge.

[dave]

Back Up …

It was too damp and cold to go up on the roof this morning, but I went anyway. I put on a sweater and a nylon windbreaker under my robe and walked through the chapter house to the stairway that leads up the back of the building to the top portions of the house and the attic. I climbed the ladder, opened the trap door and swung my leg out and up over the roof’s peak. Sliding up toward the front edge of the building my jeans soaked up the moisture from the shingles. By then I was thoroughly cold.

www.windsweptpress.com/TEMP/back up.jpg[/img]


You know, I would have thought by this time in my life that nothing would bother me. I’m in relatively good health, but let’s face it, my name is coming around on the Grim Reaper’s Rolodex sooner than later. Given that, why sweat the little stuff? Not like my Uncle Harry, whose last words on his deathbed were to wonder if he should put the snow tires on early this year.

But death is not a comfort unless you are in pain. Death is the ultimate disappointment, even if something good is coming afterward. And who knows for sure?

[dave]

I don’t want to grow old and miserable and start losing my body parts, having them removed and treated like they are something awful, put in special red containers as if they are radioactive. Or lay forever on a bed waiting for a person whose language I can’t understand to come and let me move my bowels. So I pray for lightning. I figure I can take 14 milliseconds of being flash fried and then it will be all over. I used to say I’d sign up for double the cooking time if it would get me out of Purgatory. But it turns out I’ve been saved from Purgatory by a commission of bureaucrats at Central Headquarters in Rome. That’s a pretty neat trick for a committee. Maybe next they’d like to vote to end world hunger.



And yet, I don’t want to face what may be waiting for me on the other side of death's door. Dead relatives to whom I hardly waved goodbye as they were climbing on that Glory Train. I won’t be long, Mom … just going off to Africa for a while. The woman in the Kenyan village I denied asylum on the day before she was hacked up with a machete like a side of beef. And the man and woman I killed in Pennsylvania. I didn’t kill them. I didn’t kill them. I didn’t! But I left them. And they died.

I come up here on the peak half hoping to offer myself up as a lightning rod. Or maybe I’ll lean just a tiny bit too far out over the edge, lose my balance and take the Express down to the hereafter, the train that doesn’t stop at the suffering part of life’s ending. But then I see that snowy field in Pennsylvania and their hands raised begging for help and I don’t want to go to the other side. I’m running, running … grabbing at the snow. I want to live. I quickly lean back from the edge of the roof and stare up at the darkening sky. When the vertigo passes, I inch my way back down the peak, down the ladder and down the stairs. Always backing down.

[dave]

Where was I? My name is Brother Saint Jessica, but I’m most often called Jesse. We are part of The Order of the Brothers of the Holy Varlet, based in Fermoy, County Cork, Ireland. Our tradition is to take the name of a female saint. I suppose our founders hoped women’s names would lower our testosterone … no comment. We never use our birth names or any other male name. But, away from the Abbot's hearing, we often call each other by masculine-ized nicknames. Brother Saint Helen is called Raiser (for hell raiser) and Brother Saint Catherine is simply Cat. Brother Saint Theresa is Bear, because he’s a huge guy, but most often he’s called Terd, from his habit of shouting “Bastard!” when he hits his thumb with a hammer. In fact each of us probably has two or three names that have arisen over the many years we’ve lived together. My other nickname is Ace, because once when a few of us were in a restaurant years ago, a pretty waitress told me she'd like to go out with me. We were in our robes! But nothing stops a determined woman, I guess.



By the way, I’ll bet you don’t know who St. Jessica was, do you? Saint Jessica was the wife of Chuza, a steward to King Herod Antipas of Galilee. Did you remember when Mary Magdalen went to the tomb on Easter morning she was not alone? That’s right, M.M. brought with her two other gals who had been cooking meals and presumably washing and ironing for Jesus and the Apostles. One of them was Jessica. I don’t know if Mr. Chuza knew of his wife’s activities, but for her efforts she became a saint and received perpetual care in heaven, so to speak. So you never know. You should be nice to anyone calling himself the Son of Man, especially if he's Jewish. But run the other way if he's Korean like the fellow who runs the Moonies.* My tongue is planted in my cheek, of course. I think my patron saint, Jessica, has a sense of humor, so I’m not worried about offending her. As for the Son of Man, there is no question he has a sense of humor, and I’ve learned it’s quite well developed.


*Sun Yung Moon has since died, and so far has not resurrected himself.

[dave]

Those who are keen-eyed will notice that in Post No. 3 I added a a fifth category that I'll cover. Here is the new set:

1. The Roof

2. The Night Chapel and St. Lucy

3. Immy, Jesse's childhood girlfriend

4. Sally, woman he met in the woods, who he believes to be his guardian angel, and who becomes his real estate broker. I know ... it's confusing.

5. Fathers


Even though Monk In The Cellar is about spirituality, it takes place with religion as a backdrop. Religion is all about fathers.

[dave]

Yes to the e-mailer from Blue Mountain, I did indeed choose St. Jessica’s name; it was not given to me. And frankly, I chose it because I wanted to be as anonymous as Jessica. I thought that given my personality, her name might quell my ego and leave me forgotten. My choice didn’t diminish my ego one bit, but it turns out I have been completely forgotten. I’m a monk, so I guess that’s OK. It would be nice to hear from my birth brothers once in a while, however. Not counting them, there are only two or three more relatives left to die and then I won’t have any family funerals to go to. What a shame. If you ever see a contemplative monk at a public or family funeral with a somber look on his face, take it from me, he's doing all in his power to keep from bursting out loud, "Hallelujah! People to talk to!" And afterward at the Apres Funeral Finger Food Feast those little miniature hot dogs that sure beat the boiled cardboard I normally eat! And pretty women! Even the grandmothers look good! Please, God, don't let this be a dream!" OK, I'm exaggerating. But not by much.

Strange thoughts earlier this evening: if I had married, I'd have more relatives. If I'd had children, I would have bequeathed new life. I wonder if being a monk is somehow selfish. I never thought it was.

The "borrowed" Wifi signal has dropped to 50 dbm. Gotta go to Compline!



[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXt47y-31vI&feature=related
[/youtube]

[dave]

One More Time

It’s a long climb up the back stairs to the attic of the Chapter House and the exertion is tiring for this old guy. But it’s a perfect day for it and I’m on my way to the roof. Carrying the tool box up here has winded me and I set it down near the ladder and half sit for a few moments with my butt on one of the lower rungs. Tapioca has followed me here. I wonder what she wants. Too bad she can't talk. Maybe I should teach her.




There’s a lot of junk in our attic. There are more pieces of empty luggage than I would have expected, now that I notice them. More than a dozen suitcases. Could it be so many brothers arrived with luggage but eventually went out in caskets? And here's an odd piece. My mother had one of these. I’ll have to make up a story about it to tell Kickstart tonight after supper. He’ll enjoy it.

“Seventeen monks have died here,” I’ll begin, “Did you know that?”
“And one of them,” I’ll add, “owned a cosmetics travel case.” He’ll give me a quizzical look.

“Would you think,” I’ll say, “the man was somewhat gay or did he carry his pistols in it?” I’ll wait a beat and then say, “Either way, he could be dangerous in a monastery.”

I've been doing some thinking about the roof and have decided it is an "occasion of sin," that is a person, place or thing that can heighten the possibility of my committing an offense. Like jumping off and killing myself. That's certainly offensive! So I've decided to lessen the possibility with a few nails.

Eight 12 penny nails should do it, I’m thinking, and up the ladder I go with the nails in my pocket and the hammer hanging from my belt, secured well so it doesn’t drop on my canine companion below. I can't get her to stand away from the bottom of the ladder. She stares up at me. I don't know if her tiny brain is worried about me or she just wants to go out on the roof for the fun of it. I have a similar dilemma: I don't know what my real purpose is out on the roof. I'm not sure if I should be worried or having fun up there. She's a dopey dog. I'm a dopey monk.



At the top of the ladder up under the rafters, I pound two nails into each side of the trap door so that not even a tornado will open it.

“There, Tapioca,” I say to the dog, “never again will a visitor mistakenly climb up the ladder and go out on the roof while he's looking for a bathroom.”

It's a lie and she knows it. She remains quiet, however, evidently observing our monastic silence. But there’s no rule against dog conversations during the day. I make my way back down the stairs to the kitchen where Izzy is boiling the rice and beans for our supper. There must be old guys somewhere having more fun than us.

[dave]

Here

I do not at all like outdoor chores after the first frost. It’s damned cold out there and my arthritis is bound to flare up, as I told Kickstart. He wasn’t listening. He worked in a light jacket while I bundled up in a ratty old down coat and looked like a poorly dressed bum. The porch has a noticeable sag and we’ve been trying to shore it up and keep it attached to the front wall of the Chapter House. Too bad the sag wasn’t noticeable this past summer when it would have been more pleasant to do the work.

I haven’t seen Agnes since breakfast,” I said to Kickstart.

“I think he’s writing a letter to the Mothership,” Kick replied. “I don’t think those old guys in Ireland want us anymore,” he added.

“They’re not that old,” I said. “They’re my age.”

“Uh huh,” said Kick.

“You do know they supplement our finances here each year,” I told
him. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re getting tired of it.”

“Or can’t afford it,” said Kick.

We’ve got to find some money for lumber or we will for certain lose this porch. Then the occasional visitor will have to climb a step ladder to come in our front door.

“Jesse, I think we’re doomed,” said Kick.

“You mean like we’re going to be hit by a Protestant comet?” I asked.

“You know what I mean,” he said.




“I do know what you mean, but I have no answer.”

“What will we do if we have to leave?” said Kick.

“I don’t know. Pack, I guess.”

“We can’t bring all of the manuscripts and stuff. Do you know how many documents we have now? The complete second floor, almost.”

“Kick,” I said as kindly as possible, “our work is done as soon as we finish each secretarial task for the scholars and ship it off to them. All those copies on the second floor are duplicated, I’m sure, in the university halls of our clients.”

“Where are you going to live, Jesse?” asked the young monk as if he hadn’t heard me.

“Maybe I’ll apply for assistance or maybe I’ll get a job in a store,”
I said, “and get a room down in the village … I don’t’ know. After all, I don’t have far to go. You have an entire life ahead of you, Kick.”

“My life is here on this mountain. I’m staying.”

“Well, you can’t “

“In the woods,” says Kickstart. “I’ll stay in the woods.”

“A real Desert Father, huh?” I sneered.

“Jesse,” said Kickstart, “everything I learned about my life and myself and God is here on this mountain.”

“But not God,” I said.

“What I know of him is,” said Kick.

[clarencebunsen]

To back up several posts the Sarah McLachlan song is perfect, as is the video. I haven't had much time today. My daughter-in-law was called in to work which means I got called on to take the boys. It's snack time now which means they are quiet refueling for another burst of energy.

[dave]

Have at it when you're able. A thread is theoretically never ending. If you want to add a song to a particular post, send me the url and I'll amend the post.

[dave]

Gone

I searched for Terd before supper and he was gone. I don’t mean gone off somewhere like he’d be back for Compline. He had left. His crucifix and holy picture were gone from the wall of his room on the 2nd floor. The dresser was empty and I discovered the suitcases had been moved around in the 3rd floor attic when I checked there.




I was so upset. Terd had left us? How could he do that? He always seemed like a rock to all of us. His maturity and judgment seemed unquestionable … most of the time. Among the Brothers, as some of us raced toward senility, Terd could be counted upon to steady the boat with his firm grip on reality .. most of the time. And now ... what a strange feeling it was for me to begin to doubt my own grip ... I needed his help and he had left me.

And my Guardian Angel is a real estate sales woman? What did everything she said to me in the woods a year ago mean? Did I really hear her correctly? What DID she say to me? I couldn’t remember. Where was the line between reality and fact? Would I find out some day that even God was a figment of my imagination?

[dave]

A year ago the old fellow in the village who fixed shoes and always had a piece of homey advice to offer fell over his counter and on to the floor, dead at age 88. I went to the wake and sat alone among the empty chairs. It was creepy, not a single soul came. At ten minutes before nine, the undertaker came in and said they would soon close.

"Is God dead?" I asked.

"Living in Jamaica," he answered good naturedly, as he turned off a lamp.

But if he were alive, he could certainly bring at least a few mourners to this man's funeral.



I know that's crazy, but that's how I felt in that moment. When I left the funeral home and headed back up the mountain, I felt God's presence. I think he told me I could expect only Him to be there for me, although he would most often send a representative and that person would always be someone in need. For the first time in my life, it felt good to be in need.

[dave]

(Jesse is incensed to find that not only has his friend Terd left the monastery, but the woman he met in the woods over a year ago whom he thought was his guardian angel is actually a real estate saleswoman who is trying to find a buyer for the monastery. He is distraught over losing his home, and he heads for the roof.)

When I arrived in the attic, the hammer was still on the floor at the foot of the ladder. I picked it up and beat the crap out of my trousseau,* probably ruining my good robe. I was so mad I just wanted to destroy something. I don’t know why I chose to beat up my own property. Good manners, I suppose, or ingrained psychology.



I took the hammer up the ladder and clawed out the nails. That awful creaking sound made quite a bit of noise, but I didn’t care. I pulled myself up through the trap door hole and out on to the roof. Why was my life falling apart? And like this! With people lying and cheating and hurting each other all around me. With my home of thirty years being sold by a woman who is … who is … human? I don’t know. It was so frustrating. Was everyone lying to me?

I’m not getting any younger. Just as I reach a point in life when I need stability and I don’t want to worry about growing old without help, the entire f*cking planet goes crazy and I’m out in the cold. I know this sounds awfully selfish. Well OK, it IS selfish. But I think after a life of service I deserve some consideration from somebody up there … and I don’t mean in Ireland … who’s supposed to be in charge. Right? So, God, how about getting yourself back in charge?

“Jesse!” came an angry voice. Below me Agnes looked up from the front drive and screamed at me, “Get back from there!”


*Jesse's mother gave him an expensive monk's robe when he joined the order years ago. She told him he was a "bride of Christ," even though that term is more often used with religious sisters. The robe is too fine to wear for any of his regular activities and so he saves it for his funeral. Sitting in a box in the attic, he refers to it as his trousseau.

[dave]

I barely realized I had crawled up to the peak of the roof and was leaning way out from the edge over nothing but thin air between myself and the ground. For one moment I thought, “F*CK IT!” I’ll make my own destiny. Jesse the lightning rod keels over even before the storm hits. I leaned slightly forward, but then pulled myself up and sat back from the peak. Agnes was down there shouting and I was sitting in a light rain and crying. Where had the blue sky and puffy white clouds from less than an hour ago gone? Even my god damned time machine was lying to me!



I remember once in Africa a heroin addict told me of the terrible frustration of lying sick in bed, afraid to get up, knowing if he did he would be off to his dealer for more. He dared not get up, but he was sick from lying down. He didn't want to, but he knew he would leave his bed in order to feed his addiction. It was so frustrating he wished he were dead. I felt that way on the roof. Afraid to die, but wishing to, because I was petrified with fear to go forward into old age while all of those things that could support me began to fall away.

Days Like This